


7 Isn’t My Lucky Number (It’s Yours)

by thegirlgrey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship/Love, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Sneaky Derek, Stiles is not pack mom, Werewolves, motherfucking werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlgrey/pseuds/thegirlgrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the reliable one. He has the plans and the ideas. He is the fixer of problems and the finder of solutions. He’s the one that is always there for everyone else. He is at the very top of the werewolf phone tree okay? Sometimes though, sometimes he just needs a break.</p><p>Or the story where Derek is a big faking faker. (And Stiles is kind of in love with him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	7 Isn’t My Lucky Number (It’s Yours)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere between season 2 and 3. Liberties have been taken. Fluff has ensued.

 

**Scott**

Stiles manages to make it into the Animal Clinic with little difficulty. The copy of Scott’s spare key helps. He’s about to call out to him when he sees something fuzzy peek it’s head out of the A-D’s section of the filing cabinet behind the reception desk.

“Uh dude? I’m pretty sure Deaton doesn’t keep puppies in the filing cabinet.”

Scott comes out of the back room, shoulders visibly sagging with relief until he remembers at the last minute there’s a puppy happily chomping on his hair from its perch on his shoulder. He has two others in his hands, a fourth vigorously gnawing on his shoe, half on his foot, half dragging on the floor. When he gets next to the puppy in the cabinet the others start yowling and the one stowed away, previously shredding Dolores Adams' golden retriever's file, _snarls_. Tiny sharp teeth gnashing at his little brothers (little sisters?) when Scott gets too close to him.

Stiles just blinks at Scott and the killer puppy. Because… what the actual hell? Stiles has been giving Scott a hand at the clinic on and off for three years. Puppy bathing, kitten weaning, python wrangling and the like. But this is the first time he’s ever seen a puppy act so viciously, especially to their litter mates.

“I have no idea what is going on. Their mom passed away this morning from malnourishment. One of our clients found them in his barn. They’re old enough to wean and be put up for adoption. I was just going to give them their medicine, give them their baths, and put them down for the night like I usually do except I don’t know what I did. They were calm one minute and then the next that little dude is attacking them. They’re fine when they’re separate.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. He’s finally grown it out again and is actually grateful for something to bury his hands in while he thinks. He wracks his brain for anything when he knows he won’t find anything useful because _killer puppy_. Stiles has seen a lot of shit, serious shit, and has had a hand in putting an end to a lot of that serious shit, he’s been elbow deep in Kelpie guts alright? He’s seen it all and then some. But this?

“This is wolf territory. Not like actual territory because its’ Deaton’s. But it’s at least wolfy knowledge airspace. This is call of the wild type stuff. Speaking of call of the wild, why didn’t you call Derek?’

Scott, managing to catch the puppy mid flop down his chest, juggles the three fur balls easily, tucking two into the crook of his arm to stick one cute little fluffy bottom into the oversized pocket of his cargos pants. Stiles squeals in his head. He has some dignity left, somewhere.

“I did. He just laughed at me and hung up. Then he had Peter call back a few minutes laughter to tell me to call you. He was still laughing. I could hear him. Then I think he fell down. I think, I think he was wheezing.”

Stiles fingers twitch toward his phone to confirm this but Scott’s face tells him it’s true, and he looks kind of like a wet cat, all miserable and desperate.

“Okay, so that little dude goes Kujo on his little brothers?”

Scott nods, absently nuzzles the two pups in his arms against his chest, moves his foot to keep the grey brown blob from gnawing through his shoelace entirely. The puppy barks happily as its dragged back and forth.

“One brother, three sisters. And yeah. He was fine when he was brought in, but now…”

Stiles gives a noncommittal hum. That doesn’t tell him much.

“He’s calm when it’s just you?”

Scott casts a sad look at the puppy halfway into the C’s, shredding them methodically with tiny, wicked sharp nails.

“He gets a little hyperactive with the licking and the nuzzling but yeah, he’s fine with just me.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and lets loose a heavy sigh. _His life_. He motions half heartily for Scott to go back to the exam room.

“Just fyi, If I get mauled to death by an adorable, evil puppy I’m coming back to haunt your wolfy ass. Let me grab Derek Jr. and see how he reacts to just me. He might have like reverse separation anxiety.”

Scott just continues to stare at him as Stiles ducks around the reception desk.

“What? That might be a thing.”

“Derek Jr.?”

He cocks his head to the side to stare questionably at his best friend.

“That’s all you got from that?”

Scott tilts his own head to the side, mocking Stiles with a warm grin. Stiles scoffs and points at the back.

“Just go. I’ll be right there.”

He edges towards the puppy who stops eviscerating files to stare at Stiles, nose twitching as he scents the air.

“Hey there big guy. I’m just going to-”

He slowly lifts a hand and puts it in reach of the puppy. He sniffs at his fingers curiously before licking them and nudging at the appendage for pets. Stiles happily starts scratching at his little pointed ears. One flops just the teeniest bit and it takes everything for Stiles not to just _dawwwww_ his heart out. He scoops the puppy up and elbows the drawer shut. He’s dealing with a possible killer puppy. Deaton can deal with a few shredded papers. When he gets to the exam room Scott has the rest of the puppies in the little wire pen corral. He seems happy if not disappointed that Stiles isn’t bleeding. No reaction means they haven’t figured out what’s wrong yet.

He puts DJ on the exam table. The little stinker immediately tries to do a nose dive straight off the table into the pen six feet away. Scott barely manages to catch him in time. Stiles just stares because seriously? He was perfectly fine curling up in Stiles’ arms and rubbing all over him. Now… the puppies whimper and yip and Stiles can’t resist dropping a hand into the pen to soothe them. Derek Jr. goes berserk in Scott’s hands, claw digging into his shirt for purchase as he growls at Stiles. He immediately backs off and eases away from the pen. The growl turns into a low rumble of noise, but he still hasn’t looked away from where his brother and sisters tumble into a pile and watch him warily.

“What did you do to him?”

Scott pulls the claws form his shirt.

“He was anxious, started fighting with the others so I picked him up like this and-”

He picks up the puppy by the scruff off his neck, letting him dangle just above his open palm and growls, eyes flashing wolfgold. The puppy clams down, immediately goes limp in his hands, mewling until Scott tucks him back in his arms. Stiles watches the puppy burrow into Scott’s arms before turning to look at where he’s still staring down his brother and sisters. He wanders over to where the file Deaton started compiling for them lays opens on the desk and leafs through it. He taps at a scribble of information with a question mark next to it.

“So Deaton thinks the mom was a tamaskan… Scott those dogs are-“

“Meant to look like wolves. I know dude. I work in a vet’s office for a reason.”

He spares Scott a bitchface. He should know better than to interrupt Stiles mid-thinking rant.

“But what if their mom wasn’t a tamaskan? What if she was actually a wolf? People do it all the time. They acquire a wild animal and try to tame it and when they realize their mistake the get rid of it, one way or another. There haven’t been wolves in California for years for a reason. The human population, lack of hospitable wilderness, lack of food sources… she was too pregnant to hunt for food, she had no pack to hunt for her or protect her, she had no pack because she was taken away from her’s.”

He opens his mouth to remind him just how badly the rest of the betas do without Derek around for an extended period of time, like when he went away for a week to deal with that debt he owed to that pack from Colorado and came back to a pile of miserable and snappy werewolves holding camp in his living room, when it hits him.

“Hand me Derek Jr.”

Scott eyes him warily but turns him over. The puppy grumbles at Stiles then starts to vigorously rub himself against his hand and chest, licking and nipping and scenting him for a full minute. Just like he did to Scott after he had been exposed to the other puppies. It doesn’t take that long for Stiles to realize what Scott did and refrain from smacking him upside his head for his mistake. The puppy would have only gotten in the way.

“Oh my god, Scott you imprinted on him. You made him pack! You made him pack and then you let his little brother and sisters mark you all up. They aren’t pack. You’re an alpha tease! He’s trying to defend you’re honor!”

Scott looks at him blankly for a second before recognition strikes him sharply. He looks utterly devastated and lost.

“Just make them pack! Do what you did to Derek Jr.!”

Scott looks skeptical but does as he’s told (Stiles has trained him well _heh_ ). He picks up the other male and lifts him by the scruff of his neck and growls. The puppy immediately goes limp in the gentle grip and gives a soft howl. Derek Jr.’s nose scrunches up adorably at the sound. When Scott puts the other male pup, _Balto_ Stiles mumbles under his breath, down he trots over to his ~~liter~~ pack mate and nips playfully at his nose. Derek Jr. just flops over him and uses his head as a pillow. Much like the real Derek would. Scott looks up to Stiles in horror. Stiles shrugs because as much as he knows about werewolves and lycanthropy and pack dynamics he’d be the first to admit that he doesn’t know everything. But what he does know is how to makes his best friend laugh. He lowers his voice an octave and intones.

“ _You are the Alpha now_.”

Scott laughs so hard he nearly brains a puppy. Luckily Stiles’ coordination has gotten better since Coach has started letting him play more. He manages to rescue the little ball of fluff and give Scott a scathing glare. He cuddles her to his chest, letting her lick at his chin, which Balto and Derek Jr. are not happy about if their tiny, _adorable_ , little growls mean anything. (Scott smells like the most powerful predator so he’s Alpha, Stiles smells like Scott so he’s pack.) Scott takes her and does his scruff hold and growl routine. She lets out the cutest little howl. It makes the dogs in the back, silent for the others, join her. Even her little brothers through their head back and howl. Stiles beams at the blue eyed little fuzz ball as Scott passes her back. He holds her up Simba style.

“Her name was Lola, she was a show wooollfffffff.”

The little dusty grey-brown pup yips with him happily, matching him at the end with another miniature howl. Stiles grins up at Scott as he lifts her and carries her over to the sink. Scott just smiles back and picks up the other two pups. Stiles watches as Scott does the same for the sisters, both chocolate brown (Kit and Kat), as he starts getting the bath water ready as Derek Jr. tries to assert his dominance over his sisters. They team up and steam roll him. They have him flopped on his back, face held to the floor by Kit with one paw, tail held down by Kat with another. Balto just flops over his belly, ignoring the frustrated rumbles coming from the bigger male. Stiles can’t stop laughing.

When Stiles gets home he heads for the shower. He’s covered in puppy slobber and fur and while getting that way was awesome, staying that way is admittedly sticky… and itchy. It’s not until he’s looking into the mirror over the sink that he notices he has a new mole on his neck. Except that can’t be right. He knows his moles. He once played connected the dots with his mom’s eyeliner. There are pictures to prove it. And also he’s pretty diligent with making sure none of his moles start showing signs of melanoma ever since his mom was diagnosed. He leans forward over the counter to stare at it in the mirror. Realization makes him stop short before he runs his fingers over it.

“SON OF A BITCH!”

He dad rushes in from down the hall only to find him gently banging his head against the countertop.

“Stiles?”

Stiles groans.

“Scott gave me ticks.”

His father is quiet, too quiet. Stiles turns his head just enough to crack an eye and peer up at his dad. He looks confused and a little bit uncomfortable… which confuses Stiles, until he opens his mouth.

“Son, is this, is this a werewolf thing?”

He groans louder and starts to tap his head harder against the counter top.

“What is my life?”

He continues to hate Scott and bemoan his own existence until Scott shows up 15 minutes later with Melissa McCall, her first aid kit, and a pair or tweezers in tow **.** In the end it’s only two ticks. But the enchiladas Scott brings over makes more than up for it.

* * *

**Allison**

It’s not weird that Allison shows up at his house without Scott. Stiles and Allison are friends. They make an awesome team (he likes to call them Team Jawesome in his head). And he can admit that Allison is way better at first person shooter games than Scott is. His KDR in team mode has gone through the roof now that she’s his regular gaming buddy. Scott doesn’t seem to mind. So when he walks into his room and finds Allison sitting on his bed ringing her hands it’s not unusual, but his Stiles sense starts tingling.

“What’s wrong?”

She looks up at him and now he notices her red eyes and puffy face. He knows Scott would never do anything to ruin the very tentative re-start of their relationship. She must read his thinking face and has the grace to snort at him. It’s all snuffy and tear clogged and by all rights Stiles shouldn’t find it adorable. But it is. Stiles kind of gets why Scott is ass over perfectly coiffed head for her. She _is_ kind of awesome. (Minus the fact that she went of the deep end, but manipulative, bastard grandparent and all that shit.)

“I just, I miss my mom. Today, it is,” she takes a deep breath, eyes closed, “it would have been her birthday.”

It had taken Allison a while to listen to them, to Scott and Derek, about what her mom was trying to do, why Derek did what he did. It took a while her to forgive Derek, but surprisingly once they started to make amends they established a pretty strong relationship. (Stiles had a theory that it was because they both liked to communicate using their eyebrows and exasperated facial expressions.) It might have taken her a while to forgiven him but it took even longer for her to forgive her mother for trying to kill her boyfriend and for killing herself when she could have lived as a werewolf. That anger, Stiles understands. He loves his mom. He will always love her. But after she passed he was so furious at her, even knowing it wasn’t her choice, that cancer was the thing he should have been furious with, he hated her for a while. She left him and his dad, their family. Anger he understands. The empty pit of loss that you never think you’ll ever be able to fill up? Yeah, Stiles understands that too. He sits down next to her and throws an arm around her shoulders, an idea coming to mind.

“I have an idea.”

His idea takes them an hour to the city and the aquarium. They sit in front of the huge observatory tank and watch the manta rays and tunas and whale sharks glide on endlessly. It was his mom’s favorite thing to do when the cancer and treatments started wearing her down. She loved to just sit and watch. She loved how they made her feel so insignificant, so minuscule compared to them. She loved that they reminded her that pain was just a thing; cancer was nothing but a thought in those moments. She loved to watch those beautiful creatures move with the grace she once moved with. When he tells her this she starts crying again. Stiles tucks her under his chin, battles away his own tears because today is Victoria’s day. He’s had time to get lost in his own grief, but Allison hasn’t. He glares at anyone that stares at them, at Allison as she sobs quietly into him, and watches the rays glide by like ribbons in the aquamarine blue. When Allison dries her face she challenges Stiles to a race to pet the baby sting rays two exhibits over. It’s to get back some of her control just as much as it’s for him to get back some of his. She ends up buying him a little shark plushy from the gift shop as thanks and refuses to let him buy anything for her. He tucks the two foot tiger shark into his hoodie pocket and grins. Allison likes to be nice to others, and if buying him a gift makes her feels better well, Stiles has never given a shit about gender roles anyway.

* * *

**Lydia**

A few years ago Lydia storming into his room armed with just her attitude, an outfit sharp enough to kill,   and eyes bright with a vicious sort of hunger would have meant a fantasy come true. But now it sends great big tendrils of dread wrapping straight down his spine, swopping into his stomach, and zipping to his toes. He very nearly gulps as he spins in his chair to face her.

“Uh, hi?”

She kicks off her heels and arranges her bag on his desk, pulling out books of her own and grabbing a few of his from his book shelf. He quirks an eyebrow up at her.

“Did we have plans today?”

She takes his laptop and shuts it. He could care less. His horde wasn’t doing too well on that particular raid anyway. Greenburg never follows the game plan. Lydia smiles at him. It’s full of steely determination. He refuses to flinch.

“No, I have plans today. You are just helping me.”

He leans back in his chair as she finishes setting up whatever the hell it is that she’s doing. Because if Lydia’s doing it, it’s for a damn good reason.

“Okaaaaay. What are your plans that I am oh, so magnanimously helping you with?”

She pulls out a thick packet of papers, divides them neatly on the desk for him to see. His eyes widen as he paws through them.

“Lydia, this is blood work, your blood work and,” he lifts up a thick stack of bound papers, a family crest in green and gold heading the cover page, “your family’s genealogy. And the migratory patterns of certain woodland creatures?”

She lifts an eyebrow impatiently and tosses her hair over one shoulder.

“You’re helping me figure out which species of Fae I’m related to. I’m positive that uncovering my supernatural genealogy will help me better understand my powers and the extent of my immunity.”

He kind of just blinks at her. Because he really can’t do anything but that. He knows that when Lydia sets her mind to something it’s going to get done. You had better do your best to stay out of her way or do what she says. There is no in-between. And let’s face it, Stiles is going to do just about any damn thing she asks him to do. But this isn’t his area. He doesn’t have nearly as much information to work with or to even study because Fae? Are even more untrusting than werewolves and hunter, _combined_. The written lore alone is so well kept and well hidden that even some Fae suspect it’s been lost to them. The Hales had dealings with the Fae. They knew about the different species, some of the customs they followed, basically Derek knew a shit ton more than Stiles did and probably ever would about the Fae. (Peter probably knew even more, but he was not mentioning that to Lydia. Ever. Because her working with Peter would most likely lead to either a dead body (his) or world domination (hers).) In fact, Derek had dealt with some Water Fae when they came calling a few months back.

“Why didn’t you just ask Derek? He knows more about this than me.”

She shrugs.

“He said that you have most of the information anyway. He is also not nearly as good as compiling data as you are.”

He wants to tell her that he has squat on the Fae and that Derek really should be the one helping her with this, even if he really does suck at formatting information into organized research. (Lydia and Stiles love excel spread sheets and thoroughly saved, copied, and password projected word document files alright?) But he’s distracted when she pulls out a Mac Book from her bag that looks suspiciously like-

“That, that’s Peter’s.”

She throws a look over her shoulder that clearly reads _so what_. He gapes at her, finger still pointed at the sleek Mac Book.

“He wouldn’t let me use it without supervision.”

He fails at fighting back the urge to shiver at the memory. Peter’s idea of supervision was to hover over Stiles, breath ghosting down the back of his neck, before Derek tossed him across the room with a terse _Knock It Off_. Stiles didn’t stay long after that. Compiling his own bestiary didn’t seem too prudent anymore.

“How did you get it?”

She turns and plants her hands on her hips, lips pursed, eyes gleaming maliciously evergreen. Stiles knows, _he knows_ that they are friends, will never be more than that, that she could hand him his ass ten ways from Sunday, verbally bitch slap him until he can’t remember his own name let alone his train of thought, but sweet baby Batman he will always love her.

“Do you really want me to answer that question, Stiles?”

He gulps, shakes his head no, and gives her a nervous smile.

“So, faeries?”

She tilts her head, a real smile breaking through, and settles into the extra desk chair.

“Faeries.”

* * *

**Jackson**

There’s a knock on the door. Stiles doesn’t move from his sprawl on the couch.

“Come in!”

Derek would flip his shit if he found out Stiles is just letting people into his house without so much as asking who they were. But A) nobody would be so stupid as to try anything at the Sheriff’s house and B) Stiles and Lydia warded the whole property. Stiles himself warded all access points to the house. If there was so much as an inkling of maliciousness they wouldn’t make it an inch past the boundary lines.

Jackson looks like he wants to protest on Derek’s behalf but one raised eyebrow from Stiles changes his mind. He stands at the end of the couch and looks over Stiles. One of his hands is full of popcorn, bowl resting on his chest, legs tangled in a blanket. Jackson sneers at him but remains quiet. Stiles rankles under the look. It’s his house. He can do what he wants.

“To what do I owe your Judgyness’s visit?”

Jackson rolls his eyes but looks down at his feet. Stiles catches the movement and latches on. Because this is Jackson’s embarrassed look. Nobody else could ever tell the half second look of discomfort from Jackson just checking that his $300 sneakers were pristine, but Stiles could. The whole pack could by now since Jackson went off, “found himself,” and decided to come back and be pack.

“I-”

When he stops, frustrated, Stiles waves his hand, sending a few pieces of popcorn flying. Jackson frowns tracking the kernel with his eyes as it bounces off the recliner and to the floor.

“I might have gotten a little mad at the video store and clawed The Notebook in half.”

It comes out more rushed together words and it is hard to hear through the clenched teeth but Stiles’ has gotten used to understanding fang garbled speech. He knows Jackson was prepared for laughter and mocking. He merely beams at Jackson. The blonde squirms in either embarrassment or eager anticipation to rip Stiles a new one. Stiles prefers to think it was the former. But then again… Jackson **_hates_** when Stiles does something he doesn’t expect. Which is actually a lot of the time, like the time Stiles punched him in the face (It was AWESOME.).

“She’s going to murder you.”

Shoulders sagging, Jackson smacks at the foot Stiles has propped up on the arm rest.

“That’s why I have a blue ray dvd, signed my Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling themselves, on one night air.”

Stiles nods his head thoughtfully, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth and munching, completely shutting his brain off at just how Jackson went about getting the movie signed by the leading actors. Instead he shakes his bowl.

“And hiding out at the Sheriff’s, where murder would be really hard to hide, and actually happen thanks to the wards, seems like your best option until it actually gets here. Good plan.”

He manages to scoot around, still in his half burrito/blanket cocoon, so that he is only taking up half the couch, popcorn bowl in the middle, feet and legs spread all over the coffee table.

“I dvr’d the game we missed while we were dealing with that batshit nymph.”

He waits until Jackson sinks down on the couch and reaches for a handful of popcorn until he presses play. He waits until the first goal to flick a piece of popcorn at Jackson’s face.

“Why didn’t you just go to your Big Bad Alpha?”

Jackson flicks the popcorn back, nailing him on the nose with a smirk.

“You really think that would stop her?”

He chuckles and adjusts the bowl so Jackson can grab a handful. Derek is his Alpha. Jackson is pack even if he bitched and moaned the entire time about _NOT BEING PACK_ (kinda like Scott did now that the thinks about it). Derek would have taken him in for a night, offer sanctuary or whatever. But that wouldn’t phase Lydia. And Stiles would never, ever admit this, but Derek might not even try to get in between Lydia and her prey. He knew firsthand what she could do when she set her mind to it. Stiles ignores the thought and turns the volume up.

* * *

**Erica**

She sends him an SOS in the shape of a bat symbol emoticon. He calls her and it sounds like she's about to cry. He knows that she isn't because when Erica sounds like she's about to cry, it means she’s actually about to rip someone's head off.  
  
“Hey Catwoman.”

“I'm going to kill Jackson.”

Stiles turns his jeep around in an illegal u-turn at the sound of her voice.  
  
“What did he do this time?”

She sighs.  
  
“God, it's so stupid. It shouldn't have even got to me. I'm not that person anymore.”  
  
He _hmms_ an affirmative into the phone. She might not be that person, the silent, quiet, seizure stricken girl anymore. But Stiles knows that self doubt and insecurities don't just go away over night, lycanthropy or not.

“What did he say?”

Erica is silent for a while before she speaks.  
  
“He made a stupid crack about my fangs. Said they were just a yellow as my eyes. It was nothing. He was losing to me and he wanted to get under my skin. I think I’m kind of more pissed that it worked than anything.”  
  
Stiles brakes a little too hard at a stop light. He’s pissed that he even said it at all. But he shouldn’t because…  
  
“Jackson is and will always be a gigantic douche.”  
  
Erica laughs, it’s trilling and warm over the line. It settles the worry and left over anger in his gut.  
  
“Did you tell Derek? Or Boyd? Because if you told at least Boyd we wouldn't be having this conversation. We’d be having Jackson's funeral.”

She snorts.  
  
“No, I didn't tell Vernon. Jackson, he is just finally starting acting like pack. I don't want my stupid insecurities to ruin that. And Derek, have you seem him? He's perfect in human and wolf form.”

He laughs over the phone, making sure to check both directions before making a right on red.  
  
“Erica. He's not going to laugh at you. He'll give you one of his _"I don't really know how to hug"_ hugs but I call total bullshit. Those are some secretly awesome hugs and he’s holding out on us. Besides, he’d probably put Jackson’s head through a wall. You know he has the whole anti-bullying pack thing.”  
  
He hears something clink together, like makeup against a marble countertop.  
  
“But I just, it's _Derek_.”  
  
Stiles sighs. He gets it. Derek is kind of stupidity beautiful. And he doesn't seem to care that he's a GQ motherfucker. It’s hard to go to someone that pretty when you don't feel so pretty yourself. And he knows that Erica still feels like since she left she doesn't have the right to ask him for anything.  
  
“You still at Derek's?”  
  
“Yeah. I really don't trust myself to leave. If I see him I might actually scratch his eyes out.”  
  
He laughs because it’s just so Erica he knows she won't do it.  
  
“Be there in a bit.”

It’s no surprise when half an hour later the pungent smell of chemicals spilling out the cracks of the bathroom door leads Derek to investigate. To his benefit his does knock once before opening the door. Stiles knows the picture they’re painting. He’s standing in front of Erica, between her thighs, as she sits perched on the countertop, legs swinging slightly, heels gently kicking up against the cabinets, looking completely innocent except for the fact that she’s wolfed out, and Stiles is gently adjusting what Derek’s nose and eyes must clearly be telling him is a Crest white strip on her fangs. Stiles pauses, fingers still pressing firmly against the strip. Erica’s golden eyes are wide, but otherwise she’s calm. Stiles blinks at Derek then grins as he reaches for another strip. He’s glad he bought the whole kit because he had to use three to cover the fangs on Erica’s lower jaw.

“Dude, let’s face it. This isn’t the weirdest thing you've ever caught me doing."  
  
His mind flashes back to the time Derek walked in on him dancing around a fire chanting some weird shit in Arabic with a feather in his hair. The ritual worked, the vampires couldn't step foot into hale territory without permission, but it was ridiculous and embarrassing. He remembers the time he caught him belting out Cher while he was cooking. Or the time he walked right in on Stiles’ special private alone time. All bare, flushed, slick skin to see anddddd he shuts that memory down right there. Derek leans comfortably against the door jam, crossing his arms.  
  
“Take out for dinner. Chinese.”  
  
Stiles goes back to applying the final strip to her elongated canines. He makes sure it stays before scrunching his nose up and baring his teeth at Erica in a mock snarl. She giggles but keeps her lips raised to keep from tasting the chemicals too much. Over heightened senses were kind of a pain in the ass when trying to whiten your teeth.  
  
“You got extra spring rolls? Because you remember the last time-"  
  
Derek rolls his eyes as Erica grins at him as much as she can (it still makes her look insane but not Peter insane).  
  
“Yes. I remember.”  
  
Of course he remembers. It's hard to forget sitting on one of your Beta's because he got so pissed he lost control just because he didn't get the last spring roll. Stiles had fallen off the sofa he was cackling so hard. Hell, he choked on his chicken and broccoli he was laughing so hard. The face Derek made as his lo-mein slid through his hair, down his neck, and slugged its way down his shirt was something Stiles was going to remember for the rest of his life. Derek huffs and ignores Stiles grin to catch Erica’s eye.

“You didn’t need to do this in the first place. Now Jackson’s going to be pissed that he lost to you and that your teeth are whiter than his.”

He pushes himself off the door and back into the house at large as Erica and Stiles laugh, clinging to each other and the counter top to keep from toppling over.

* * *

**Isaac**

Isaac kidnaps him. Well, he really, that wasn’t- no, no Isaac kidnaps him. There isn’t any other words for grabbing someone while they are innocently (albeit warily) walking to Chemistry, hauling them over your shoulder, and stealth ninja’ing you both to the school parking lot, which you subsequently tear out of. So, that’s a thing that happened. Stiles finally manages to stop gaping at the teen driving like a bat out of hell to speak.

“DUDE! What the _HELL_ is wrong with you!?”

Isaac pulls into the Whole Foods parking lot, kills the engine, and turns to him, eyes frantic and face pale. And holy shit does it look like the time he got shot and Erica tried to fix it with the wrong kind of wolfsbane.

“Isaac, you’re freaking me out man.”

Isaac scrambles out of the car and Stiles follows. Maybe he gets stuck in the seatbelt a little bit, but whatever. He goes to where Isaac is pacing behind the trunk, fingers gripped tight in his curls. Stiles opens his mouth to ask again, but Isaac points at the obvious dent in the right rear bumper. It’s scratched a little but that’s hard to ignore what with the giant football sized dent.

“Oh shit.”

Because that giant football sized dent? It’s a giant football sized dent in Derek’s Camaro. The same Camaro that he treats like a precious child because it used to be _Laura’s_ Camaro. Stiles steps back like the car might grab him and not let go. He flails an arm and pointed finger at Isaac’s face.

“Oh shit. You just made me an accessory!”

Isaac only stops tugging his hair to grab at Stiles shoulders. Somewhere in the back of Stiles head he notices that even though Isaac is freaking out he’s still calm and in control. He mentally fist bumps the air.

“He let me borrow it, and I swear I checked the driveway before I left. But then I backed up and hit the garbage cans, and Stiles I don’t know what to do. He’s going to _kill_ me.”

Stiles has to grab Isaac’s arms this time because he thinks he’s actually going to start pulling out hair now.

“It’s not that bad.”

Isaac’s eyebrows look like they’re disappearing into his hair line they’ve gone so high. Stiles grimaces.

“Okay, it’s bad but it could have been worse. It could have been a mailbox or, or a kid!”

The panic is back on his face.

“Not helping, Stiles.”

He lets go of Isaac and crouches down to survey the damage.

“I meant that he’s not going to kill you. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll be glad you’re okay and that nobody else was hurt.”

It’s actually not that bad. The bumper is all metal so the dent _should_ come out and some touch up paint should fix the scratches up nicely. He gets up and shrugs.

“It really isn’t that bad. You should just tell him.”

Isaac stops pacing, and yep, shit the puppy dog eyes. Stiles stands firm. He will not buckle. He’s put up with Scott’s vicious, deadly puppy dog eyes for years. HE IS IMMUNE.

“ _Stiles_.”

And that’s all it takes. Just his damn name and big blue pleading eyes filled with may or may not be real tears. He stares at Isaac for a second and a small lip quiver makes an appearance.

“You are so owing me for this. Harris is going to be over-fucking-joyed to give me another detention for ditching.”

He steps closer to Isaac, the smiling bastard, and jabs a finger at his face.

“I fucking knew Peter was going to be a bad influence on you! I KNEW IT! But no one listen’s to Stiles!”

He stares down at the dent angrily. He motion with his arm to get Isaac’s attention.

“Go run to the Autozone and get some black detail paint. It’s in a little tube thing, whoever’s working should be able to help you find it.”

Isaac nods and dashes off. It’s not until Stiles is climbing under the car, every intention to push the dent out with his legs that he realized he sent the _werewolf_ off to get paint while he tries to superman a dent out of the car that the _werewolf_ dented.

“WHAT IS MY LIFE!?’

He doesn’t get an answer and well, Stiles didn’t expect one anyway. He just braces his shoulders against asphalt and pushes.

* * *

**Boyd**

Stiles is just about to settle in to a COD gaming marathon when his phone goes off. He reaches for it while balancing a controller and entire bag of peanut butter cups.  
  
“Yello.”  
  
He's answered with a growl and the sound of children screaming. Their yells are muffled behind the sound of a door closing. Stiles immediately goes on high alert.  
  
“Uh Boyd, you murdering some kids or something? Because yeah, hi, Sheriff’s son.”  
  
All he gets in another growl that tapers out into a heavy sigh.  
  
“No. I'm babysitting. When its’ just my little brother and sister they listen. But my cousins are in town, and the twins always get them to act up. They've mutinied.”  
  
Stiles tries not to laugh, but Boyd must sense sit because he growls.  
  
“This isn't funny Stiles. I have silly string up my nose!”  
  
Stiles actually laughs at that but he’s already grabbing his backpack and heading to his dvd case.  
  
“I'll be there in 10.”  
  
He hangs up before Boyd can say anything else.

When he does get there he can hear the screaming from the curb and something that definitely sounds like plastic against a wall. Boyd's eyes flash gold when he answers the door. Stiles just shoves the pizzas at him and steps inside.  
  
"ALRIGHT IF YOU WANT TO EAT START PICKING UP YOUR MESS!"  
  
The kids stop bouncing on the sofa and coffee table to stare at him. One of the twins narrows his eyes. Yeah, that kid and his identical little bro are definitely the spawn of evil.  
  
“Whatcha gonna do if we don't?”  
  
The grin Stiles gives him doesn’t make him back down, hands on tiny little hips. What does get him to drop the little act is when Stiles lifts up his phone to show the contact information that reads Dad and the picture of him in his uniform, jacket clearly stating SHERIFF.

"I call my dad and tell him I found four little kids breaking code 43b. Not listening to Boyd."

The second twin steps up with round eyes.

“That’s not a real law!”

Stiles waves his phone.  
  
“You bet it is. My dad passed it himself. And you know what happens when you break code 43b?”

Boyd’s little sister looks on the verge of panic and Stiles feels bad for messing with them but the alternative isn’t much better. They don’t need 6 year olds running around screaming about werewolves.  
  
“We go to jail?”

Shaking his head he squats to their level.  
  
“No, worse than that. I have to call Grandma Agnes and tell her what you were doing.”  
  
The kids go quiet and pale at that. Nothing like the disappointed grandma look to make a kids realize how bad they're behaving. Grandma Agnes is a sweetheart, but she’s a tough old cookie. She’s of the wooden spoon meets back of the hand discipline. One by one they slink off the furniture and start collecting the toys, and books, and a toaster!? He shoots a look to Boyd who only shrugs his shoulders. Stiles rolls his eyes and claps his hands together.  
  
“Now after that's done we'll have some pizza and watch Harry Potter! If you’re good I’ll even help you make your own wands!”  
  
The kids kick it into high gear. A small skirmish breaking out because Ellen isn’t cleaning fast enough (though she is the only one actually cleaning and not tossing stuff under the sofa in the hurry to get to the food and fun). Boyd looks seconds away from cursing or hugging him. Stiles grins and punches his shoulder.  
  
“Come on. Voldemort waits for no man.”

* * *

**+1 Stiles**

After they deal with the nymphs again (who knew they had extended family?) they are exhausted and starving. It takes a lot out of werewolves to re-grow their eardrums (who knew they were related to Banshees?). They all pile into cars and head to the same designation without thought. Rose’s Diner has been in Beacon Hills since probably before Beacon Hills. It’s ancient and gleams of carefully shined chrome and vinyl. More importantly its 24 hours and cheap enough to keep a whole pack happy. The wait staff don’t even bat an eye anymore when they crawl into the dinner in the wee hours of the morning, sometimes dirty, sometimes just waking up, but always noisy. They crowd into their booth, the end corner booth that wraps around to form a huge L shape.

Everyone slides in. Scott takes the very edge of the booth, keeping his back to the door. Derek takes the other end, almost to the edge of the laminate table top, blocking the rest of the pack in, putting himself in the direct line of sight of the fire exit and rotating kitchen door, facing the main doors and the rest of the restaurant. He always wants to see a threat coming, always wants to be between pack and harm. Stiles sits directly on his right, mostly so he can be across from Scott who never really cared that Stiles liked to kick his feet or use his lap as a foot stool. They’re bros like that. The waitress starts setting down their usual drinks.

Stiles takes his coffee with two cream and two sugars. Like a normal person. Derek takes his with six sugars and three creams. Stiles nearly had a conniption the first time he watched Derek make his coffee because he was seriously expecting him to drink it black like Isaac and Lydia and surprisingly Danny. It had made Derek seem more… approachable. But that didn’t mean Stiles didn’t tease him about it, just a little bit. This morning though, he just passes him his extra creamer and nudges at Erica to slide him the sugar packets. They all order their usuals. Except Peter who’s currently working he was through the entire menu and hitting on Jenny, Greenburg’s older sister, who’s is manning the counter and working her way through college. Stiles tries not to roll his eyes. Derek, who’s looking in the same direction, doesn’t bother.

“The sad thing is he’s being less creepy than usual.”

Derek huffs into his coffee. Stiles wonders if he should tell Greenburg. Then he thinks, if Derek’s not too concerned about it, then he shouldn’t be. Still, he has a bag of tricks up his sleeve if Peter starts acting sketchy, well sketchier than usual anyway. And he knows Lydia would be more than happy to help him. He pauses, forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth, when he realizes that he could do it if he had to. Just like how he bound the nymphs back to their plane forever. All it took was a few simple words rhymed on the fly while his pack howled in pain around him. A little bit of his blood powered by the steel of his will. He’s come a long way since having his ass beat in a basement. Deaton had helped him, so had his dad and Chris, so had his pack.

Derek nudges him with a shoulder. He raises an eyebrow when he gets Stiles attention. The rest of the pack continue on, unaware of his weird moment of life altering clarity. And huh, Derek's the only one that noticed it, that always notices when he slips into his head, that notices him. Just like he was the only one that believed Stiles could do the ritual to banish the nymphs in the first place. He shakes himself mentally and offers the concerned Alpha a smile.

“I’m good.”

He pauses and looks down at Derek’s plate, his extra crispy hash browns in particular. He cocks his own eyebrow.

“Could be better.”

Derek not so subtly curls his finger around his plate and pulls it closer to him. Stiles snorts and turns back to his short stack and Erica’s slowly growling waffle cabin. He knows that Derek will end up stealing his sausage links and let him have half of his hash browns anyway. He settles back in, safe and comfort curling into his bones.

He feels something warm and soft under his cheek and blinks away the sleep heavy feeling in his eyes. He pulls himself up from his half up right position. He hadn’t realized he was starting to fall asleep. Hadn’t realized that he’d been close enough to Derek to fall asleep on his shoulder. The older man was looking at him, eyes concerned again. Scott nudges at his foot. He kicks back half heartedly.

“You okay to drive?”

Stiles grumbles and rubs his hands roughly down his face. He tugs Danny’s half empty coffee cup over and downs it. He grimaces at the bitter taste still coating his tongue.

“How are you even human?”

The tan teen smiles at him, an all dimples grin.

“You don’t know for certain that I am.”

Stiles sends a grin right back to him. It was an inside joke between the two of them. After Danny had hacked into the school board mainframe to find the address of a ghoul moonlighting as a teacher using his students as after school snacks, he had made a crack at him being one with the computer which lead to him questioning him about cyborgs and wondering if Danny was actually a cyborg sent from the future to makes sure the Beacon Hills pack survived. Danny speaking in a robotic voice had only made him laugh hysterically.

Stiles prods at Derek’s shoulder.

“Let me out dude. I’m good to drive.”

Derek doesn’t relent until Stiles sighs and meets his eye.

“Seriously, Derek. I’m good.”

It looks like Derek wants to protest, wants to ask for his keys. Stiles wraps his hand around his wrists and squeezes it gently.

“I’m going straight to sleep the second I see a bed. I promise, I’m okay.”

Derek nods and let’s Stiles slip out of the booth. Stiles can feel his eyes on him all the way to the jeep.

* * *

So when Derek gets home the last thing he probably expects is Stiles, barefoot, in a pilfered par of pajama pants and a tee-shirt, sprawled out over his bed. He hadn’t been able to find the energy to get under the covers yet. He does, however, have the energy to wiggle a hand in his direction. He tilts his head to his shoulder and stares at him from where he’s laying.

“I am not pack mom or whatever the fuck you’re thinking in your little wolfy mind. If anyone is pack mom it’s Scott. He worries after everyone. And he bakes. ALL THE TIME. Oh, a witch tried to hex Boyd? Here’s a cupcake or thirty. Isaac got clobbered by a troll? Let’s hug it out. Griffin tried to kidnap and snack on a kid, victory fudge! ...Seriously man, do you ever question the baking? I think Deaton’s trying to convert him from vet to baker because he doesn’t want to lose him or his muffins.”

Derek just raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth. Stiles cuts him off because he doesn’t care about Deaton’s unhealthy relationship with Scott’s muffins (and dear god he’s never going to think about that ever again).

“And don’t you dare give me some bullshit about being emotionally constipated and not good with words. We _all_ know that’s true. But you’ve gotten better. Like a lot better. You haven’t killed me yet, and I’ve been verbally assaulting you for like the past three minutes. Besides, you can act all unaffected but you care about your pack, you care about us, and you will do everything you can to make sure we are safe and happy.”

He’s met with silence. He watches as Derek smoothes at a nonexistent scuff mark on the floor with his sock covered foot.

“Oh my god. You totally do! You pretend to suck at it because you don’t want to deal with them because you are lazy. You, you LAZY WOLF!”

Derek, the asshole that he is, just shrugs all nonchalantly.

“You’re better at it than I am.”

Stiles flails from his sprawled position on the rather insanely comfortable bed. He ends up smacking a pillow with a loud whack in the process. He stops to check that no feathers or stuffing comes flying out before remembering that he doesn’t really care and flops back down.

“I am not.”

He can feel Derek glaring at him. He lifts himself up on his elbows and throws his own glare at him.

“Yeah, okay I’m good at it, whatever. My point is that while I don’t mind doing it, friendship bracelets and bro codes are serious bidness, it’s not my job. You’re the Alpha. You’re supposed to deal with all their problems, not just the wolfy stuff. Which, I remind you, that I deal with a fair share of too. Pick up your slack man.”

He gets a sharp nod from Derek. That was easier than expected. Like a lot easier than suspected. Derek didn’t even fight him on it. But then again they had just spent 3 hours dealing with supernatural bullshit. Everyone is kind of too tired to deal. Stiles is way too tired to deal. He just narrows his eyes and keeps talking.

“So consider this my resignation. You’re the Alpha. You are #1 on the metaphorical speed dial, Stiles is #2. Now, I’m in desperate need of some sleep so this is me requesting my alpha to help my emotional and physical well being.”

Derek’s expression is a mix of deer in the headlights and utter confusion. It's adorable. Stiles has to hold back a smile, hides it in the pillow he grabs and snuggles into.

“Cuddle me god damn it, or I will call the entire pack and tell them you are a big faking faker and you actually LOVE hugging you closeted hugging junky.”

He expects Derek to protest, to argue, to try and wait Stiles out. So he can’t be held accountable for the squawk of surprise he lets out when he feels Derek’s arms wrap around him and pull him back into his chest. He’s lost his jeans and his shirt, leaving him only a tank and his boxer briefs. Stiles makes another noise when Derek rests his forehead between his shoulder blades.

“Sleep Stiles.”

It is a testament to how exhausted he is, casting always drains him, that he doesn’t even argue. Not even when he can feel Derek smiling into his skin.

Loud pounding wakes Stiles up. It feels like he's only closed his eyes for a minute. The warm early morning sun's rays creeping into the room tell a different story. Scott and Isaac’s voice come clear through the bedroom door.

“Derek! Derek, we can’t find Stiles!”

“He’s not home. We’ve tried his phone. It goes straight to voicemail.”

Stiles doesn’t bother to look for his phone. He knows it’s on the floor somewhere, and it’s dead. He just rolls over, lifts Derek’s arm (which had been draped protectively over his stomach) buries himself under it, and muffles half into the mattress, half into Derek’s shoulder.

“Make them go away.”

It goes deadly silent on the other side of the door before Scott lets out a surprised squeak.

“ _Stiles!?”_

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to put the effort into snorting at the sheer confusion in Scott’s voice. Derek apparently does.

“He’s fine. Go away.”

Isaac and Scott start talking over each other, apologizing, wanting to see for themselves, expressing their fear, but it’s not until one of them rattles the doorknob that Derek reacts. They all have an agreement that if doors are closed they stay closed, and you stay on the outside until the person who occupies the room gives you permission to enter. Mostly it was Stiles (special private alone time is private for a reason!) and Lydia wanting their privacy, but it didn’t become the golden werewolf rule until Allison put her foot down after what Stiles dubbed the Anniversary Sex incident. He thinks Boyd is always going to blush when he looks at Allison now. It took him weeks to even look Scott in the eye. Derek growls at them, actually _growls_ at them, Alpha voice rumbling through, vibrating into Stiles where they are pressed skin to skin.

“GO AWAY, _NOW_.”

Stiles hears a scuffle, the sound of footsteps, and then nothing until the apartment door slams. Derek relaxes back into Stiles, moves him so he’s not suffocating under his weight and body heat, which is nice considering Stiles just doesn’t care right now. Especially not when the new arrangement has Derek slotting one leg between his and his stubbled cheek pressed into a shoulder blade. There’s something that’s been nagging at him for a while. Isaac isn’t a great liar. He’s gotten better for the sake of the pack. He can bluff, tell half truths, but he can’t lie or hide anything for a long period of time (he’s ruined so many surprise parties that they just don’t even try anymore). It’s been nearly 3 months and he hasn’t blabbed to anyone but Stiles about the Camaro. He hasn’t done any of his avoid the person you’re keeping secrets from maneuvers either. In fact, he and Derek have been completely fine around each other.

“You know about the car don’t you.”

Derek nods slowly, eyes warm and laughing at him.

“Yep.”

Stiles blinks up at him. He’s smart. He’s damn smart and something is just not adding up. If Scott pulled half the shit Stiles did this month alone, Derek would be at his throat way before now.

“So why no maiming of the Stiles?”

He hums and rubs his almost beard deliciously against Stiles skin. It’s testament of his will that he doesn’t turn into a pile of goo because it feels that damn good.

“Because then they’re would be no cuddling of the Stiles.”

Stiles rolls over to wave a finger at Derek’s face.

“AH HA! YOU ARE SO A JUNKY!”

Derek rumbles something that sounds like a half hearted protest. Stiles ignores him. He’s too busy preening. He knew that Derek was a cuddle junky. Nobody else believed him but Stiles was always paying attention. He saw the way Derek moved around Isaac, careful to always be in his line of sight when around him, especially if initiating touch, always letting Isaac come to him when he needed physical reassure. For Boyd he almost had to force him into it. He strategically left the seat next to him open, directing and placing and shuffling everyone so that the only spot open for Boyd was right next to him. Erica was a different matter all together. She instigated and surprisingly enough so did Jackson (though it was more pats on the back, and in Stiles’ case gentles smacks to the head, shoulder, feet). Scott was somewhat stubborn which resulted in headlocks, nuggies, and that one memorable arm wrestling match. Derek was kind of really good at reading his pack, knowing what they needed, and giving it to them without asking. Stiles was really good at reading Derek know. The years led to them being surprisingly good friends. Stiles brain stutters to a halt before snapping into a whirlwind of thoughts. He tears himself away from Derek, rolling onto his back and then side to face him.

Derek, sensing his rapid change in mood, eases back away from him. His face drawn with confusion, arm going lax into the open space between them. Stiles squawks at him, finger still pointing at his face.

“You! _YOU_!”

He tries to pull his thoughts together while Derek’s eyebrows do a funny drop and rise, rapid confusing and understanding. He was also good at following Stiles train of thought. The bastard. He hooks his arm around him again, uncaring that Stiles’ finger is now poking him in the cheek.

“But, but you- I had to- the pack they- and you let them- oh, you fucking asshole. You made them go to me so they’d drive me to you. Peter’s not the only Hale that likes to play psychological warfare huh?”

Derek pulls him in closer. He literally tightens his arms around Stiles and drags him the scant few inches between them, fitting him snuggly to his chest. He locks eyes with Stiles while dragging his finger away from his face.

“I’m the only Hale that gets to play with you.”

The words aren’t said angrily or demanding. They’re said like truth, like fact. Stiles sees the dark determination in Derek’s eyes, the promise of something more. He has to swallow twice before he can manage an even voice.

“I object to being manipulated, not so much you doing it or you doing _anything_ to my person for that matter, but the manipulation part. That shit is ending right now.”

But Derek is too busy nosing up behind Stiles ear, stubble impossibly soft against the tender skin of his neck, warm huffs of breath curling down into his collar.

“Whatever you say, Stiles.”

Something very embarrassing leaves his throat, more whimper than sob but still part moan.

“Oh-okay, no more manipulation, after-after this.”

Derek breathes against his lips.

 “Wouldn’t have had to do it if you weren’t so damn oblivious.”

Stiles squeaks and tries to protest but Derek’s lips are on his, warm and firm and teasing. Stiles grips his head and pulls him closer, slotting their lips together and during it into something dirty, slicking Derek’s bottom lip up with his tongue. Derek’s the one that make an embarrassing sound now.

“Wouldn’t have had to do it if you would have just said something.”

Derek shrugs, goes in for another kiss, something fierce and wild before slowing it down. It’s fucking perfect. Better than any of the other kisses he’s ever gotten. Drunk make outs and seven minutes in heaven half remembered don’t handle a candle to them. Derek rests his forehead against Stiles’, grin playing at his lips while he catches his breath.

“Never good at talking.”

Stiles huffs, plays with the hair he unknowingly buried his hand in. Derek really doesn’t seem to mind, just holds him tighter. His body is a solid warmth against him. He feels secure if not a little suffocated. He elbows Derek a little and he loosens his arms, gives Stiles space. He ducks his head, cheek’s warm with a blush that makes Stiles grin because he did that.

“Sorry.”

Stiles laughs, chases the blush with his lips across his right cheek, stubble grazing against his lips.

“You should be, we could have been doing this all night.”

Derek snorts, but let’s Stiles kiss him again, soft and a little off center. A Stiles’ kiss if there ever was one.

“You were exhausted.”

Stiles shrugs.

“Still am, but I’m willing to make out until I pass out again.”

Derek studies him for a second and grins. He nips at his chin before finding his lips again. At first their teeth clash because they’re smiling too much, but they find their rhythm. They always do. And as Derek starts tracing random patterns across his skin, something unfurls behind his sternum, something that tells him maybe they always will.

They are both settling back into sleep, warm and sated, tangled up in each other, when Stiles laughs into his shoulder sleepily.

“What?”

Stiles pokes at his ribs.

“7 is your lucky number.”

Derek laughs, fits himself into Stiles arms more comfortably.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”


End file.
